


happy times together

by wordsoverflow



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Dirty Talk, Falling In Love, Feelings, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Humor, M/M, Marijuana, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Shotgunning, all the sex is sober sex btw, richard doesn't really dom per se but he has very strong top energy in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 01:31:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19842757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsoverflow/pseuds/wordsoverflow
Summary: “Taron,” Jamie greets. There’s the slight clamor of what could be dishes in the background. “To what do I owe this...two in the morning phone call?”“Suppose,” Taron begins slowly, “I’ve just called Richard and told him I had a wet dream about him last night and that, more or less, I’m gagging for it.”(in which taron has an incredibly eventful twenty four hours, all without leaving his house, and everything comes full circle)





	happy times together

**Author's Note:**

> i'm baaaaack. these two are just too lovely for me not to keep coming back to. also: all marijuana consumption in this fic is very light/recreational and does not occur during any sexual activities. i couldn't not write some shotgunning for them given the knowledge we have that they both smoke it.

**11:38PM**

“So here’s the thing,” Taron begins, the second Richard picks up the phone. He kicks his sheets off his legs, suddenly quite warm despite the increasingly chilly temperatures outside as of late. 

“Taron…?” 

Taron takes another hit from the preroll between his fingertips and studies the faded plaid pattern of his pajama bottoms intently. Plaid is such a good pattern, he thinks. “I woke up last night at...at...shit, what was it? Four? No, no maybe... _three_.” He frowns. “Actually, four is probably right.” He blinks. “What was I saying?” 

“Uh…” Richard’s accent seems to slip through even into the single syllable. 

“You’re so Scottish,” Taron sighs, dreamy even to his own ears. “Oh! I remember what I was saying now!” He grins happily and bounces a little in his seat. “I woke up last night, and my pants were absolutely creamed up.” Richard lets out a strangled noise into the phone. Taron takes another hit and continues on, unbothered. “Right, I know? Like Jesus, Dicky, I’m almost...almost...thirty years old and I’m coming in my pants after a naughty dream?” He sighs, shaking his head at himself. “Genuinely, that hadn’t happened to me since at least secondary school. Not until _you_.” 

“Me?” Richard’s voice is thick, heady like syrup. Vaguely, Taron wonders where he is in New York right now. Hotel? Car? He’s too high to properly calculate the time difference between them but he knows it’s _earlier_ for Richard. 

Taron nods, realizes Richard can’t see him, and giggles slightly. “Yes, you,” Taron confirms. “And I know we decided not to talk about it but I _remember_ getting hammered the night before our carpool bit and I _remember_ what your mouth feels like and what you sound like when you come and anyway, Richard, here’s the thing: I finished filming nearly two weeks ago, you finished like three weeks ago, and I think we should just _do it_ , you know?” He snubs out his joint and snatches up his glass of water, taking a quick sip. 

Richard is quiet, but Taron focuses on the sound of his breath over the line, little puffs that are maybe a bit sped up. It’s hard to tell, what with the weed clouding Taron’s brain. “Taron,” Richard says, his usual lofty enunciation of the _ar_ in Taron’s name beautifully apparent. “Taron, are you high?” 

Taron shrugs—and remembers once more than Richard still cannot, in fact, see him. “I shrugged just now,” he informs Richard. “Yeah, I am high, and I really would like for you to fuck me. Or me to fuck you. I’m not terribly picky, you see.” Honesty is always the best policy. 

Richard coughs spastically, and Taron thinks vaguely that if anyone should be coughing it should be him—the acrid smoke can tickle even at the best of times. “I…” Richard starts. Taron wishes his mouth was wrapped around Richard’s dick right fucking now, wishes he was choking on it, actually. He licks his lips at the thought, the slick swipe of his own tongue mildly pleasant to his eager senses in the moment. 

“Listen,” Taron soothes, “think about it, and let me know, yeah?” 

“You’re high,” Richard says feebly. 

“Yes,” Taron replies easily. “But I wasn’t last night when I came in my pants _literally_ dreaming about your cock up my arse, and I wasn’t all the other times I’m gotten myself off thinking about you either.” 

Richard makes that strangled sound again. “Right,” he mumbles. “I—I...you’re _high_.” It’s as if he can’t quite get past this information. This seems illogical; in fact, he and Richard have gotten high together, more than once. 

Taron sighs. “Let me know, Dicky.” 

“Stop calling me that,” Richard says, petulantly, like even whatever form of shock he’s currently experiencing can’t quite eclipse the indignation he feels towards the name. 

Taron _laughs_ , loudly. “Never,” he promises. He makes a smacking kiss sound with his lips and hangs up the phone. 

**2:07AM**

Two hours later, Taron is feeling quite un-high. He paces around his kitchen where he’s wandered to since calling Richard, agitated—not really _panicked_ , but rather...concerned. He picks up his phone, goes into his contacts, scrolls, and then taps to call. “Jamie,” Taron says, as soon as the line picks up. He can always depend on Jamie to be up at an ungodly hour, too. His mouth feels dry and he smacks his lips. It always is when he comes down from a really good high. 

“Taron,” Jamie greets. There’s the slight clamor of what could be dishes in the background. “To what do I owe this...two in the morning phone call?”

“Suppose,” Taron begins slowly, “I’ve just called Richard and told him I had a wet dream about him last night and that, more or less, I’m gagging for it.” He frowns. “And I was high at the time.” He frowns deeper. “At the time of the call, not the wet dream.” The clarification seems somewhat important. 

Jamie huffs. “I could have done without the detail,” he teases. “I dunno, good for you? Communication, keeping things exciting, all that.” 

The lack of reaction is troubling to Taron. “How could that be good? I think I nearly gave Richard a heart attack.” He sits himself down onto a stool at his kitchen counter, rubbing at a temple. 

“What, is he generally not up for a bit of dirty talk?” Jamie asks. There’s the rush of water over the line now, probably from a sink faucet. “I mean, he and I haven’t really discussed what we like in bed, but that seems surprising to me. I dunno.” He hums. “Maybe it’s the accent,” he muses. 

Taron raises his eyebrows, nods slightly in agreement—it’s a fair point—before remembering his actual concern. “Well—I don’t know if that’s his thing _either_ ,” he says. “That’s my point.”

The running water turns off. “Wait,” Jamie says carefully. “What are you on about? Taron...are you...are you saying you and Richard _haven’t_ been shagging since like, the third week of filming?” 

“ _Sorry?”_ Taron stutters out. 

Jamie laughs, a short, raucous sound. “Jesus Christ, Taron. Please tell me you’re just taking the piss right now.” Taron thinks he hears him sit down somewhere. “I mean, genuinely. I just... _assumed_. Honestly, Taron, being around the two of you makes _me_ feel a bit, uh, heated.” He pauses. “In the least creepy way possible. Just...the tension radiates off you two. And the _snogging_? Come on now, that’s just solid evidence. Do you know how many times I went into your trailer for a bag of that good tea I like and found you two trying to find one another’s tonsils?” 

“That was for the roles!” Taron insists, mind reeling from Jamie’s rant. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Jamie exclaims, laughing openly now. 

“It was!” 

Jamie laughs harder. “Oh, Taron.” A pause as his giggles grow louder. “Oh, _Richard_ , whenever that bastard is right now.” He sighs, as the laughter finally calms a bit. “Listen, working with you two was a fucking honor, you’re both absolutely brilliant actors. But if you’re being honest with me about this, then you are both two of the dumbest sods I’ve ever had the misfortune to come across.” 

“Oi,” Taron protests weakly. A blush has begun to work its way across his cheeks and neck. 

“No, no,” Jamie says. Taron can practically _see_ the way he must be shaking his head right now. “Knowing you two never once hooked up is going to have me reevaluating everything I thought I knew about the past six months. I mean, _what the fuck_?” 

Taron shifts uncomfortably. “We...alright, there was...there was...the night before we did that carpool karaoke bit, for promo? We got _smashed_ , like an unspeakable amount of alcohol was consumed,” he explains. “And...and perhaps...we, uh.” He pauses, clears his throat. “Richard is quite good with his mouth,” he sums up. 

Jamie snorts. “Taron,” he sighs. 

“But we were so _drunk_ , Jamie,” Taron insists. “We never talked about it. I don’t think either of us knew what to say? I dunno. And he’s my best fucking mate, alright? And that was it—just that.” He fidgets a bit more. “We snogged so much for the _roles_ ,” he adds once more.

“Oh, yeah, of course, I found you, in his lap, in his car, sucking on his neck, _weeks_ after you’d finished filming the love scene, and that was _just for the roles_ ,” Jamie says, perfectly deadpan.

“You’re just saying it weird so it sounds bad,” Taron accuses feebly because that’s all entirely, factually true. 

Jamie sighs. “I trust you know how absolutely moronic that sounds so I’m not going to argue it anymore. But I guess the fact remains that you _do_ want him, because apparently you have wet dreams about him, and then you get high and call him to tell him about those dreams. And _then_ you call me to tell me all this, which is far more than I ever needed to know at all.” He sounds like he’s having the time of his life, actually. 

“I,” Taron says helplessly. “That’s…accurate.” He sighs and drops his forehead to his arm, where it’s rested on the counter. “What am I going to _do_?” 

Jamie chuckles, not unkindly. “Taron,” he says, in that warm, level way of his. “I suppose I was quite off in assuming you two dickheads had done the logical and hooked up _ages_ ago, but I’m fairly sure I didn’t make up all the uncomfortably filthy stares Richard shot your way the entire time we were filming. Christ, it was like I was _intruding_ half the time.” A pause. “Talk to him when you’re _not_ high, for a start,” he advises. 

Taron groans, shutting his eyes. “What if he doesn’t want me and I’ve just gone and scared off my best mate?” 

Jamie tsks. “Now I know you’re just taking the piss.” He pauses. “Just so you know, Dex and most of the cast and crew think you two have been shagging this whole time, too.” 

_“What?”_ Taron says, snapping his head up and gaping around at his empty kitchen, as if there is anyone there at all to witness his shock. “You’re lying.” 

“Excuse me,” Jamie protests. “It’s not like we sit around gossiping about you two, but I’m telling you, we all just...assumed. A long time ago. Dex thought that had to be part of your...your chemistry, or whatever. I think he fancies himself a bit of a matchmaker, actually.” 

“Oh my God,” Taron whispers. 

“There, there,” Jamie soothes. “Was it good weed, at least?” 

Taron sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it was.” 

“Well, there’s a silver lining!” Jamie chuckles some more and Taron drops his head back down, caught between giggling with Jamie, whose laughter is often contagious, and wallowing deeply in a nice dose of self-pity. 

**1:10PM**

Taron wakes to the insistent tone of his doorbell going off. It’s an obnoxious sound when he’s been roused rudely from sleep, and even to his sleep-muddled brain he’s quite sure he isn’t expecting company. The tone cuts off, and immediately is replaced by a set of loud knocks on the door. Taron grumbles and heaves himself out of bed, stumbling down the hall towards the front of the house. “Alright, alright,” he mutters, even though the knocks stop before he gets to the front door. He swings it open and—

“Oh,” Richard says, blinking, a look of surprise on his face. 

“Dicky?” Taron asks blankly. 

Richard’s eye’s sweep up and down Taron once, and Taron is suddenly painfully aware that he’s clad only in a loose pair of boxers that hang precariously low on his hips. He tugs the waistband up self-consciously, and _watches_ a distinct flush rise to Richard’s cheeks as he does. “Stop calling me that,” Richard prefaces, then: “It’s, uh, one in the afternoon, so…”

Taron shifts in place where he’s standing. “I hibernate for at least two weeks after I finish filming for anything,” he explains. 

“Right,” Richard says, nodding. His jeans look expensive, but well-worn, and his black shirt looks uncharacteristically cheap, though the usual almost too-small fit of it is quite familiar to Taron. Briefly, Taron wonders how Richard isn’t half-frozen to death—it hasn’t snowed in London yet, but it’s certainly cold enough to. 

Taron steps back. “Come inside.” 

“Thanks,” Richard says, doing so. Taron shuts the door behind him and turns to face Richard. Richard brings a hand up and pets at Taron’s hair a bit—still uncomfortably short for Taron’s taste but no longer shaven right down. “It’s so much longer already,” he comments. 

“Yeah,” Taron says. “Thank God.” 

Richard pulls his hand back. “Are you sober right now?”

Taron flushes. “Yes,” he mumbles. 

Richard nods slowly. “Okay.” 

Taron clears his throat. “Are you?” He just wants to check, and perhaps he’s being slightly cheeky. 

“Yeah.” The smile Richard flashes him is unexpected multitudes of shyness, teasing, fondness, and...and _want_. Richard takes one step forward and places a hand on Taron’s hip. 

Clumsily, hastily, Taron shoves Richard back against the door and pushes his mouth against Richard’s. Richard _moans_ , slips his arm around Taron’s hips and uses his hand to pulls Taron close. He places his other palm on Taron’s jaw. 

“Morning breath,” Taron mutters into the kiss awkwardly. “Sorry, I haven’t—”

“Don’t care,” Richard cuts him off, biting at his lips. He moves his hand to grip Taron’s chin, holds him in place while he licks insistently into Taron’s mouth. It’s so fucking hot that Taron’s knees actually buckle, a horrible cliche he didn’t think was actually possible. Richard chuckles and grips more tightly at Taron, walking them backward so that Taron ends up pressed against the wall. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” Taron whines when Richard begins kissing down his jaw instead. He tilts his chin up to give Richard better access, and pushes his fingers through the thick waves of hair at the back of Richard’s head.

“Not laughing at you,” Richard murmurs, hot breath sweeping over Taron’s skin. “Just want you.” He slips a hand between them and cups at Taron’s cock in his boxers, already plumped up and fast on its way to full hardness. “Oh fuck, sweetheart,” Richard groans.

The _sweetheart_ sends heat flashing through Taron’s body, a rush of arousal so intense and so sudden his vision goes splotchy for a moment. “Holy _fuck_ , Richard,” Taron gasps, hips bucking. 

“Do you like that?” Richard asks, pressing his palm more firmly to Taron’s cock, which is now swollen and heavy, hard enough to hurt a little. “Do you like when I call you that?” 

Taron, for all his months of pining embarrassingly after Richard, and for all his hours of lurid fantasies, is entirely unprepared for this teasing, powerful Richard who is apparently on a mission to reduce Taron to a babbling mess right here in his foyer, clothes still on and everything. “Oh, you bastard,” he hisses, dragging his nails down Richard’s back. 

Richard chuckles again, nuzzling at Taron’s neck. “We need to talk, I think,” he starts, “but I—I really right now just want to make you come. Fast, I’ll do it fast. Do you want that?” He removes his hand from Taron’s cock and rests it at his waist instead. He pulls his head from Taron’s neck, and looks at Taron’s face instead. Taron can see him take several deep, calming breaths, and does the same. 

He’s so _gentle_ , and _considerate_ , always. Taron wants Richard to break him into a million little pieces. Jesus. Richard is right—certainly, they need to talk. But more pressing in this moment: “Do whatever you want to me,” Taron breathes, meaning it deep, meaning it completely.

Richard grins, a feral grin that makes his eyes shine dangerously and Taron for a moment honestly feels his breath leave him with how much he _wants_ Richard. Then Richard sinks to his knees and Taron starts hyperventilating instead. Richard kisses along his belly first, following the trail of hair beneath Taron’s navel, nuzzles into the skin there. “I still remember how you taste,” Richard murmurs. “From that night. We were so fucked up, but I remember that. Your taste. I think about it.” 

Taron groans. “Jesus, you are fucking _sin_.” 

“Thanks,” Richard says smartly, sounding quite pleased with himself. 

“Wanker,” Taron flicks his shoulder and Richard nips at him in retaliation. Taron gasps, and Richard takes the opportunity to slip Taron’s boxers off. 

“Oh fuck,” Richard mutters, so quietly that Taron thinks for once he isn’t saying it just to drive Taron mad. He sounds breathless, needy. 

Taron bites his lip, looks down at Richard eyeing his cock like it’s his last meal, and strokes a few trembling fingertips over his stubbly cheek. Richard’s eyelids flutter shut momentarily before he flashes them open and in one go, slips half of Taron’s cock right into his mouth. 

“Richard,” Taron grunts, knocking his head back against the wall. Richard hums around him, and immediately begins sliding his mouth up and down Taron’s cock. Richard slips one hand round to Taron’s arse, gripping it tight and using it to pull Taron even closer as he widens his jaw and sinks down until his lips are almost touching the coarse curls on Taron’s pelvis. “ _Ugnh_ ,” Taron gargles, words beyond him. 

Richard pulls off with a gasp, kissing messily over Taron’s cock. His lips are wet, sloppy, and he looks terribly obscene when he resorts to licking haphazardly at the head of Taron’s cock. Taron sees him bring his free hand to his own jeans, fumbling with the button. He sees Richard’s hips buck up aggressively when his hand bumps over the clear bulge of his cock. “Fuck that,” Taron grits out, nearly delirious with want. He grips Richard’s shoulder and pulls until Richard stands up, dark eyed and slick mouthed. 

“What…?” Richard begins, dazed and perfect. 

“Like this,” Taron says, wrestling Richard’s jeans open. He’s not wearing pants. Taron goes quietly insane at that but wastes no time in pulling Richard’s cock out, the thick, blood-hot weight of it making his mouth water. He uses his other hand to tug Richard’s hips close, then gets their cocks together, wraps a hand around them—he can barely cover half of their combined girth, but Richard quickly brings a hand down, too. 

“Oh, you’re so smart,” Richard praises gleefully as they work their cocks over together. “A genius,” he purrs, biting at Taron’s lips.

“I know,” Taron says smugly, rolling his hips to increase the friction. Richard pulls his head back and Taron leans forward, trying to chase after his mouth. Richard gets a hand to Taron’s neck and pushes him back against the wall. He isn’t squeezing or gripping tightly at all—just resting his hand there, keeping Taron in place by his throat. It’s _stupidly_ fucking hot, and Taron hears himself whine pitifully, precome blurting from his cock.

“Is that okay?” Richard asks breathlessly. 

“Of course it is, you fucker,” Taron laughs, blinking sweat out of his eyes and staring at Richard’s face, how red his cheeks are, how focused his eyes are as they rove over every bit of Taron’s body. 

Richard grins and shifts his palm up on Taron’s neck slightly, so his fingers can grip the underside of his jaw. “I don’t want you to move,” Richard instructs. “I want you to come. I’m going to make you come.”

Taron shivers, nods helplessly, and goes limp against the wall, held in place by Richard’s hand and the weight of him pressed against Taron. 

“Good,” Richard says, so softly. Taron has never in his life wanted to be called _good boy_ more than he does in this moment, and that realization is as embarrassing as it is arousing to him. Richard nudges at Taron’s hand around their cocks and Taron lets go, drops his hand to the side. “Good,” Richard repeats. 

Taron moans without meaning to, then bites his lip to stop the noise. 

“No,” Richard says, leaning into nuzzle at the edge of Taron’s jaw. “I want you still, not quiet.” He bites at Taron’s skin and Taron whines automatically. “Good,” Richard says once more. Then, he wraps his palm firmly around Taron’s cock and begins wanking him, fast and unrelenting. 

Taron gasps, bucks his hips. Richard steps even closer, shoving a thigh against Taron’s hip to hold him still. Taron can feel his cock against Taron’s pelvis. “I want you to come,” Richard murmurs. “Want to see it, want to see how high shoot for me, want to taste you, want you to be so strong I can taste you for hours, want you to be thick and messy and all over.”

It’s possible Taron will actually _faint_ before this is over. “Richard,” he begs, knees buckling once more. 

Richard wanks Taron’s cock even harder, digging his thumb into the slit at the head of Taron’s dick. Taron groans and Richard nods like Taron’s done something right. “That’s it, sweetheart,” Richard coaxes, twisting his wrist perfectly. The pet name is _so fucking much_ , and he’s working Taron’s cock over like...like Taron is an instrument he’s playing. 

Richard ducks in and licks sloppily over Taron’s slack lips. “Please,” Richard says, quietly, abruptly. “Please. I want it so badly. _Please_.” 

Taron’s vision goes white and he comes _viciously_ , an orgasm torn from his body. Richard groans, drops his hand from Taron’s neck and buries his face there instead. Seconds later, Taron is vaguely aware of come striping up the opposite side of his chest and thighs—Richard’s gotten himself off in the ten seconds since Taron starting coming.

“ _Fuck,”_ Taron keens, shaky and wracked with pleasure. Richard is kissing frantically at the skin of his throat, spit everywhere, teeth bumping over Taron occasionally. 

Finally, it comes to an end. Richard’s cock spurts out a few more burning splashes of come and Taron wraps his arms around Richard’s shoulders, holds him close while he trembles through it. “Shh,” Taron gentles, kissing at Richard’s temple. At last, Richard finishes too. Taron sighs, exhausted, and sinks to the ground, pulling Richard with him, so they end up in a tangle of limbs on the floor. 

“Good morning?” Taron says at last. 

Richard snorts. “Afternoon, you tosser.” He pulls his face from Taron’s neck.

Taron shrugs a shoulder, unbothered. “Close enough.” He yawns tiredly. “I think that was better than any sex I’ve ever had in my life, which, frankly, is quite rude.” It _is_ rude—impromptu handjobs in his foyer shouldn’t so soundly outperform every other sexual encounter he’s ever been a part of. 

Richard chuckles. “I think the more appropriate response here would be _thank you_ or _good job_ or I don’t know, _that was nice_.” He’s oh so gently dragging his knuckles up and down Taron’s flank. 

“Searching for compliments, are we?” Taron snarks. 

“Don’t be a brat,” Richard admonishes. He nudges his nose against Taron’s jaw until Taron turns his head and Richard can press a soft, slow kiss to his lips. Richard starts to smile against his lips until they have to part. 

Taron laughs a little and smiles right back until a sudden thought hits him. “Wait…” he begins. “Weren’t you just in _New York_? Like...twelve hours ago?” 

Richard chuckles nervously. “Perhaps. Yes.” 

Taron blinks, caught wildly off guard. “And now you’re here?” 

Richard coughs. “Yes. I...as soon as you hung up. I, uh, caught the soonest flight out.” 

“Holy shit,” Taron says, still trying to process this information entirely. “Where—where…? Did you even bring any luggage? What the fuck?” 

Richard shifts around. “No. I just—grabbed my passport and wallet and, uh, here I am.” 

“That’s mad,” Taron exclaims. “Which one of us was actually high on that phone call?” 

Richard pouts, and it’s fucking adorable. “ _You_ were,” he says indignantly. “It was definitely you that was high. I was just the poor sod that got a phone call over my lonely dinner and had to listen to you talk about wanting to fuck me and how you—you were coming in your pants over it, and I’ve wanted you for months, and I—I honestly, _I’m only a man_! What was I supposed to do?” He’s gesticulating wildly throughout his rant. 

Taron blinks at him for a moment, then finds himself bursting into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Richard visibly fights a grin for a moment before joining in on the laughter. “Fuck,” Taron wheezes. Richard giggles even harder, his face pink and scrunched up with joy, and he rests his head on Taron’s shoulder. 

“We—we should get up,” Richard gasps.

“Yeah,” Taron agrees.

Neither of them make a move to actually get up, instead allowing themselves to stay caught up in the joyous absurdity of it all for a moment longer. It feels good. 

**3:18PM**

Richard lets out his third yawn in as many minutes as Taron comes through the archway between the kitchen and his living area, two cups of freshly brewed tea in hand. “You look sleepy,” Taron observes. He’s changed out of the clothes he arrived in—ruined by come and sweat—and looks positively cozy in an old pair of Taron’s sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt with some sort of faded logo on it. Taron is similarly dressed. “Here,” he says, handing Richard a cup of tea, and settling on his couch beside Richard with his own. 

“Thanks, duckie,” Richard says, taking a sip from the cup. “And for the sandwich earlier, too,” he adds, nodding Taron. “I am sleepy, to be honest. I’ve never done well with jet lag. Not a good quality as an actor, I’m told.” He gives a rueful smile. 

“I think you have plenty of other fantastic acting qualities to compensate,” Taron says seriously.

Richard rolls his eyes. “Maybe,” he allows. “But I should try and stay up, adjust to the time change, if—if I’m staying here. In London. And not...going back to New York.” He takes another sip of his tea, eyeing Taron carefully.

Taron understands the implied question perfectly: they’ve arrived. It’s time to talk about things like grown adults, instead of behaving like teenagers, consequences be damned. “Right,” Taron says softly, stretching his legs out to rest on the ottoman in front of them and tilting his chin up, blowing some air out. “Rich, you should know I did not plan to call you like that last night. I never—it wasn’t something I thought out at all.” 

“Okay,” Richard says, voice perfectly neutral. 

“But,” Taron continues, turning to look at Richard. “I did mean every word I said. I remember what I said, and I meant it. I _mean_ it.” He can feel himself starting to blush a little, which seems irrational, as far as they’ve already come. “I...I want you.” He shrugs helplessly. “A lot, actually. It’s almost _annoying_ , I dunno. And—anyway. I want you. So.” He tugs nervously at the hem of his shirt. “Your turn, please.” 

Richard takes one more sip of his tea, and then stretches out to set it down on the tray Taron keeps on the ottoman. The movement lifts his shirt up a bit, exposing a strip of pale skin along his hip. Taron can’t quite keep himself from staring at it, and when Richard leans back, he notices, and quirks a knowing brow at Taron. Taron flushes and leans forward to set his own cup down too. 

“That? The way you’re looking at me?” Richard starts. “You look at me that way a lot, you know.” He smiles briefly, then sighs. “But I had myself pretty well convinced it didn’t mean what I wanted it to. Even—even after that night, before the carpool bit. I thought...I thought you know, I was just a warm body and a good time and, um.” He frowns. “Taron, clearly, I want you too. But you need to…the thing is…” He blows out a breath. “I don’t just want a one-off from you. Like, this isn’t just scratching an itch or having a bit of fun and calling it a day. I...Jesus, Taron, I could fill a fucking book with the things I want to do to you.”

Taron’s blush intensifies but he refuses to look away from Richard. “Alright,” Taron says carefully. 

Richard licks his lips, a nervous habit that Taron recognizes well. “You’re my best mate, T,” Richard explains. “Like, right now I don’t think there’s a single person I like spending time with more than you. Even if...even if we aren’t fucking. I just...shit, T, I _really_ like you.” He pauses for a minute. “So I’m thinking, you know, if—if I want you the way I do, and you’re my best fucking mate, and my favorite co-actor ever, maybe, and just a brilliant fucking person—I’m thinking if you’re all these things to me, I…” Here, Richard finally breaks eye contact, ducking his chin down. “I could be falling in love with you, Taron.” Richard picks at a thread on the sweats. “And I think that if we—we keep doing this, I _am_ going to fall in love with you. And—that’s not your _responsibility_ —just—I think you should know, before we...we decide what we’re going to do with, uh, with this. You should know that.” 

There’s a surreal feeling to it: Richard fucking Madden, effortlessly beautiful and talented and funny and friendly Richard, sitting on Taron’s couch, nervous and unsure, telling Taron he might be falling in love with him. It’s surreal. 

“Richard,” Taron says, softly. “How long have…?”

Richard sighs, finally looking back up at Taron. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “A while, I suppose. There was a moment, just something dumb. I think we were eating lunch on set or summat. And I was staring at you, right? I do that a lot. But I realized I couldn’t _stop_. You weren’t even doing anything _interesting_ , either. Shit, like, talking with your mouth full or something.” He shakes his head, laughs. “But I couldn’t look away from you. Still can’t.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Anyway.” 

Taron’s mouth feels dry again, and he swallows thickly. “I—” 

“Hey, hey,” Richard interrupts. “That sounded pretty bad. I promise, you haven’t like, broken my heart or whatever. I’m alright, and I’m not...expecting anything from you. I’m _falling_ in love with you.” He laughs, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “I just thought that before we started messing about or whatever, I should be honest with you, yeah? But I don’t—fuck, T, you’re my best friend first and foremost. And I haven’t said a word all these months, so...I’m not _expecting_ anything. I just needed to say it. Was giving me like, indigestion, honestly, keeping it all bottled up.” He reaches out, puts a hand on Taron’s knee. “Alright?” 

Taron blows out a breath. “You’re my best mate, too,” he starts. “But like, Richard, this isn’t just scratching an itch for me either. I don’t think I could stand it if this was supposed to be a one-off.” He licks his lips. “That said, just yesterday I was fairly certain I was just going to be wanking my way through this,” he gestures between them, “for the foreseeable future. And now…? You’re here and you’re _you_ and...and...and…” Thinking about possibly falling in love with Richard makes Taron’s head spin and he can’t quite make himself say it just yet. “But you make me bloody happy all the time,” he says instead. “So I don’t want you to go back to New York, not until you absolutely have to. And I want to fuck you seven ways to Sunday, and cook you shit dinners, and watch bloody _rom-coms_ with you, and beat you at ping-pong and FIFA and…” He trails off again, flushing. “And I want to keep doing that, all of that, for—for as long as you’ll have me, so.” He ducks his head, picks at a thread on his sweatpants. 

“Taron,” Richard says, placing a hand over Taron’s fidgeting fingers. “I don’t have to be in New York, or anywhere, for three more days. And—I want to stay with you in the meantime. And then I want to come back to you, every time we have to be apart, I want to come back to _you_.”

Taron bites his lip, tries not to smile like an absolute _idiot_. “Okay. That’s—that’s good, then. We’re, uh, settled?”

Richard chuckles and Taron looks up. “Like it’s a business deal,” Richard teases, sticking out a hand. “Here, let’s shake on it.”

Taron rolls his eyes. “You are _such_ a tit, sometimes, I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Oh, come here,” Richard says, laughing openly. He grabs Taron’s hand and pulls him in for a long, thorough snog. Taron fists his hands in Richard’s shirt, clutches him close. They pull away only when their mutual laughter interrupts the kiss too much. “Christ, I missed you,” Richard murmurs when their lips part. 

“It was quite weird without you on set, that last week,” Taron admits. “Much more pleasant,” he clarifies, just to be difficult, “but weird.”

“Brat,” Richard breathes, then presses another quick kiss to Taron’s lips. 

“Speaking of the set,” Taron says, nudging Richard back against the couch and straddling him. Richard’s lap has always been incredibly comfortable. Richard sets his hands on Taron’s lips, looking up at him with that focused attention of his Taron’s always admired so much. “You should know that basically everyone thinks we’re already shagging. Like, regularly.”

“What?” Richard asks, blue eyes wide. 

Taron nods, sympathizing. “Jamie thought I was joking when I told him we hadn’t been. Like, sincerely thought I was taking the piss. Apparently, Dex thinks he set us up, brought us together like Cupid or summat.” 

Richard shakes his head slightly. “Oh my God,” he mutters, then squints up at Taron. “Wait, when did you learn this?” He dips his hand below the hem of Taron’s shirt, thumbing over the skin there gently. 

“Uh,” Taron chuckles, slightly bashful. “Last night…I rang up Jamie after I called you. Had a bit of an existential crisis, you see.” Richard snickers as soon as he says it and Taron pouts, pinching Richard’s forearm. “I _did_ , thought I’d fucked up and you’d never speak to me again,” he says dramatically. 

Richard softens only slightly. “By that point I was probably already on the plane on my way to see you,” he laughs.

“Fuck,” Taron says, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe you did that, you absolute lunatic. Didn’t pack anything either. I suppose you’re just expecting to leech off me the next few days, is that it?” Richard’s pink cheeks look infinitely kissable so Taron ducks in and places one right on the high point of his cheekbone. 

“If you could be so kind,” Richard says seriously, moving his hands round to rest on the curve of Taron’s arse. “If I am staying here in London, though, I do need to stay awake until it’s proper bedtime, though. Absolutely knackered from the travel but I’ll be intolerable if I let the jet lag get the best of me.”

Taron huffs. “Yes, I remember from when we were all out at LA. You were an absolute terror for like, two days.”

“I know,” Richard admits. “It’s a problem.” He smirks, pulls Taron in for a quick kiss. “I suppose to keep me awake we can have a shit dinner and watch romantic comedies and play ping-pong…” He snickers as Taron blushes and nips his lip.

“Stop making fun of me,” Taron pouts. 

“I’m not,” Richard assures him, bringing Taron’s hand up to his mouth and brushing a kiss over the knuckles. “It’s sweet.” Taron tries very hard _not_ to smile at that, but he’s always been terribly easy for praise and compliments. 

“We can’t forget the most interesting way to stay awake either,” Taron says seriously, rocking his hips slightly and ducking into kiss Richard’s neck. Richard’s breath stutters a bit and Taron smiles smugly. 

“ _Definitely_ not,” Richard agrees wholeheartedly. “We’ll save that for later,” he promises. “Right now, I’d very much like to kick your arse at some ping-pong, if I’m being honest.”

Taron laughs. “It’s very cute that you think you _can_ beat me,” he tells Richard, climbing off his lap. “For starters, you’ll have to beat me to the room where I keep the ping-pong table in the first place and I’m not sure you remember where it is, so I think that puts me at quite an advantage, don’t you?”

Taron waits until Richard opens his mouth to retort, then dashes off in the direction of said room, laughing as Richard scrambles up off the couch to chase after him. 

**9:52PM**

“Harder,” Taron gasps, and laughs breathlessly, joyously, when Richard complies instantly. He collapses onto his elbows and moans like he’s being paid to do it. Were it anyone else, he’d be beyond mortified at this moment but as it is, he just arches sluttily when Richard runs his hands down Taron’s back and lets himself moan _again_. 

“You’re perfect,” Richard groans. “Perfect, perfect.” He pulls out and Taron makes a noise of protest, but Richard shushes him, grabs him by the hips and flips him around, kneels between his thighs. “Let me look at you.”

Taron flushes. “How romantic,” he teases, like the words haven’t made his heart flutter. 

Richard rolls his eyes, presses his cock to Taron’s hole. “Yes, yes,” Richard mutters. “You’ve made a sappy fool out of me, actually.” He begins sinking back inside Taron. 

The stretch is so _good_ that Taron feels his eyelids flutter and goes to tilt his head back in pleasure, but Richard grabs him by the chin, keeps his eyes locked with Taron’s as he continues to push in to the hilt. Taron is breathing like he’s run a marathon by the time he’s all the way in, cock twitching against his belly. 

“Fuck,” Richard breathes, staring rapt at Taron’s face. “Wish you could see how you look like that. Your eyes get all dark and your mouth like...drops open.” As if to emphasize, Richard hooks two fingers over Taron’s bottom lip. Immediately, Taron closes his mouth over the digits, sucking at them. “T,” Richard groans, pulling his cock out halfway and slamming back in. Taron bites down on his fingers at the sensation, and Richard yelps, pulling them out. 

Taron grasps Richard by the shoulders as Richard begins to fuck him in earnest, and pulls him down so that Richard’s head is beside his, and Taron can bury his face in the crook of Richard’s neck. Taron wraps his thighs more firmly around Richard, locking his ankles behind him. “Sweetheart,” Richard murmurs, kissing sloppily over Taron’s ear. He shifts his hips up slightly and nudges right over Taron’s prostate.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Taron whines, nodding frantically. “That’s so good, Richard, good, good, good. _Again_.” Richard exhales shakily and does it again, and again, and again, and Taron _might_ have tears in his eyes from how good it is. “Jesus, why is this so good,” Taron half-laughs. “It’s fucking— _ah_ —r-ridiculous.” 

“I could do this forever,” Richard gasps, “I swear to God if I could just spend forever making you feel good, I’d do it.” He kisses over Taron’s shoulder, sweeps his hands over Taron’s chest and belly. It’s _so much._ Taron sinks his teeth into the firm muscle of Richard’s shoulder. “ _Shit_ ,” Richard hisses, jolting. “Of course you’re a fucking biter.” 

Taron tries to chuckle but it turns to a moan, when Richard circles his hips a particularly glorious way. “S-Sorry,” he stutters, gnawing on his own lip. 

Richard huffs, pulling back. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “ _Everything_ you do makes me feel like I’m about to lose my goddamn mind.” He hooks his hands on the underside of Taron’s knees, pushing his thighs closer to his chest. “I’m gonna make you come now, yeah?” 

The self-assurance Richard apparently consistently brings out during sex, when he’s always so fucking modest in everything else, is really fucking _doing it_ for Taron. It’s brain-meltingly hot to listen to Richard being so intent on getting Taron off and so confident in being able to do so and so deftly able to manipulate Taron’s body like he was born to do it. It—Taron can quickly see himself becoming _quite_ suited to this on a regular basis, spoiled by it even, and he’s very okay with that. “Yeah,” he tells Richard, nodding breathlessly and squirming at the crooked smile Richard gives him. 

Richard grips onto his hips, pulls out almost entirely, lifts Taron up slightly, and _slams_ back in. 

_“Ah_ ,” Taron cries, melting back into the bed. 

Richard does that again, keeping one hand under the small of Taron’s back so that his hips stay at the right angle, and brings his other to grope greedily over Taron’s body. He speeds up his hips, frantic thrusts so that Taron’s prostate is getting absolutely slammed at an unforgiving pace and his balls are tightening up so rapidly it almost hurts. Taron lets out a wordless, embarrassing noise, his body writhing a bit on the bed. He can feel himself breathing rapidly, probably noisily. 

“Fuck,” Richard snarls, sounding overwhelmed himself. He leans back down, bracing himself on one elbow and kissing Taron’s slack mouth. 

“Gonna come,” Taron gasps into the kiss. He wraps his arms around Richard’s back, drawing his nails harshly over the skin there. Everything smells like sweat and sex, pungent and thick in the air and it’s only turning Taron on _more_. He nuzzles into Richard neck, his shoulder, lapping up perspiration as he goes. “I’m gonna _come_ , I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” he rambles.

“I know, I know,” Richard tells him, fucking him viciously. Taron is aware that he’s literally being pushed up the bed with the force of the movements and he has the sudden wish that he could _see_ this, how good Richard is dicking him, how fucking electric they are together. Taron can’t help himself, bites down on Richard again. Richard groans but doesn’t pull away this time. “Yeah, yeah, c’mon,” he encourages, “do what you need to, sweetheart. C’mon.” His accent is so thick now and Taron wants to listen to him this way _always_.

Taron thinks he very well might explode. He has no idea where Richard learned to talk this way but he’s fucking _thankful_ for it. He sobs and bites Richard again, scratches aggressively at his back. Richard keeps making hurt little noises at each bit of pain but he doesn’t pull away, and Taron feels how his thrusts get impossibly more powerful with it, like he’s enjoying it. “Richard,” he slurs. 

Richard brings a hand down between them, wraps it around Taron’s cock. “Oh fuck,” Richard mutters. “You’re fucking dripping, T. You’re so _hard_ , oh God.” His hand leaves Taron’s cock and Taron watches as his brings his fingers to his mouth, laps up Taron’s precome. 

Taron tosses his head back against the mattress. “I’m _coming_ ,” he gasps, chokes on the words a little. “Ah,” he gets out and then he is coming, come shooting up from his cock ridiculously hard given it’s already his second time getting off that day. 

“Fuck,” Richard breathes, tugging at Taron’s chin so that he can look him in the face. Everything is hazy in the midst of orgasm but Taron registers the way Richard’s eyes move over his face, drinking it in, then his body and back again. “Fuck, T, you’re coming so hard.” 

He isn’t _wrong_ at all. Taron feels globs of come land in the hollow of his neck, feels _exquisite_ release and relief with each pulse. His heart might fucking combust but what a goddamn way to go. “Richard,” he half-wheezes when it’s finally done, and collapses heavily back onto the bed. His muscles feel shaky and jumpy, every nerve in his body used up. 

Richard kisses him frantically, his mouth and then his cheeks and the rest his face, down his neck and shoulders, too. He’s shaking, Taron can feel it. Despite how wrung out he is, Taron summons all the strength he can to shove at Richard, push him off Taron and onto his back beside him. “T?” Richard asks. 

“Shh,” Taron soothes, climbing over Richard. “My turn to make you come,” he tells Richard. “Need to get you off, want to so bad.” 

Richard chuckles hoarsely, looking like a wreck already. “Won’t take long, I’m—you’re— _fuck_.” Richard’s hips jump up the minute Taron wraps his lips around his cock. He tastes like bitter precome, lube, and something earthy—Taron’s arse. It’s a lot, and Taron moans dazedly around his mouthful. 

Richard is shifting his hips needily and Taron curls his hands around them to still them. His fingers end up pressed against the sides of Richard’s arse and he’s suddenly _inspired._ He slips off of Richard’s cock. “Can I—?” He noses down the crease of Richard’s thigh and presses an elbow to Richard’s knee until Richard spreads his legs open a bit more. He flicks his eyes up the length of Richard’s body. “Richard, I want to eat you out.” 

Richard lifts his shoulders of the bed, supporting himself on his elbows so he can look down at Taron. He’s so fucking, stupidly handsome—strong jaw clenched and dark blue eyes heavy-lidded and high cheekbones dusted with stubble. His hair is plastered in waves on his forehead. “You want that?” He sounds disbelieving.

Taron chuckles. “Richard, if you can imagine it, I want it with you.” He kisses the soft skin of Richard’s inner thigh, noses at the chestnut, fine hairs there. “And right now my mouth is watering with how much I want to lick you out,” he tells him. “If that’s something you want.” His body is paradoxically exhausted beyond belief, muscles trembling all over, and buzzing with undeterred energy to _do this_ for Richard, for himself. 

Richard bites his lip and Taron sees his cock actually twitch. Taron lets a small, pleased grin curl over his lips and Richard moans a little. “Yeah,” Richard says simply, and without further preamble, Taron shoves a pillow underneath Richard’s hips, and presses his face to that dark, intimate place. He’s only ever done this twice before, and he’d like it well enough each time but this—Richard smells both musky and sharp here, and the skin is damp with sweat. His hole is tight ring of muscle, the skin velvety soft over it. 

“Fuck,” Taron mutters to himself. He licks over Richard’s hole, tangy bitterness spreading over his tongue. He takes a shaky breath, vaguely concerned this could get him hard again. This feels as intimate and close to Richard as he could possibly be, and after months of denying himself just that, it’s overwhelming and everything he needs. He grips tightly onto Richard’s thighs and _goes for it,_ licks and sucks and kisses and slobbers and nips and hums into Richard’s arse. 

“ _T_ _aron_ ,” Richard says above him, voice urgent, hands clamoring around Taron’s neck and shoulders. “Fuck—you’re—you’re doing so good. T,” Richard groans. “Oh, shit. Gonna come, baby, gonna come.”

The _baby_ sends something like fire through Taron’s body and he moans, shoves in deep, like he could suffocate here and be happy. Richard’s hole has relaxed slightly under all the attention and Taron dips his tongue in greedily, thrills with Richard rocks his hips down in response. “Taron,” Richard gasps, body suddenly drawing tight.

Taron scrambles to sit up, face smeared with spit, panting loudly. Richard fumbles a hand out and Taron grips onto it, wraps his other palm around Richard’s cock. Immediately, Richard thrusts hips up and starts coming, thick wads of come landing all across his chest and belly, sticking to the hairs there. 

“Oh God,” Taron moans, destroyed all over again. He kisses up Richard’s torso even as his continues coming, streaks of it landing on his own chest and neck. He laps up whatever bits he comes across until he’s level with Richard’s face, and kisses Richard’s slack mouth, squeezes his hand tight. He brings his hand up from Richard’s cock, come-stained and all, and shakily sweeps his palm lightly over Richard’s face, the unreal angles and curves of it. 

Richard goes limp when he’s done and just like that, Taron feels his own muscles relax instantly like a puppet with its strings cut. He collapses right on top of Richard, sweat and come everywhere. Richard brings an arm up around Taron, keeping him close like the full weight of Taron on top of him isn’t probably constricting his breath. “So,” Richard says, voice hoarse. “We can do _that_.” 

Taron snorts tiredly. “Let’s start putting it on our resumes.” 

Richard chuckles. “Skills: can have explosive sex with Taron Egerton.” 

“We don’t even _have_ skill-based resumes,” Taron points out fairly. Richard is very snuggly, he reflects, especially with how he strokes a hand gently over Taron’s back and kisses the top of his head every so often. 

“I’m still proud of us,” Richard insists. “I mean, that was….” He sighs.

Taron nods, understanding. “That was the kind of sex I’m going to become quite spoiled on. I’ll be so smug, all the time. Insufferable, even.” 

“You’re always insufferable,” Richard tells him. Taron pokes a finger into his ribs and Richard jolts, giggling, then rolls them over onto their sides, facing one another. “I like you so much,” Richard whispers, like it’s a secret. “I...like you so fucking much.” 

Taron smiles, feels perhaps there are hearts actually jumping from his eyes. “Even though I’m insufferable? Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense,” Taron teases. 

Richard rolls his eyes. “I don’t know _why_ I like you so much,” he assures. “It’s very irritating, actually.” 

Taron chuckles, nudges his nose against Richard’s. Christ, he feels like dumb teenager, completely infatuated and incapable of maintaining some fucking dignity around Richard. His only consolation is that the feeling seems to be mutual. “I like you too,” he murmurs. “So much.”

**11:06PM**

“I still have another preroll of that strain I was smoking yesterday,” Taron murmurs, cozied up on Richard’s chest and toying with the coarse hairs peeking over the collar of the tank top Taron had given him after their shower earlier. Richard is scrolling aimlessly through his phone. Richard’s skin is damp and slightly pink, scrubbed clean and soft. Taron turns his nose into the warm skin in the hollow of his neck and thrills at how Richard smells like his body wash right now. 

“Hmm?” 

Taron yawns, presses a quick kiss to Richard’s chest. “I know you’re knackered from the jet lag but it is a nice high for bedtime, if you’re interested. I always sleep great on it.” 

Richard sets his phone down. “Yeah, when you’re not calling me up and giving me a heart attack because of it,” he teases. 

“Oi,” Taron protests. “That weed is the only reason you’re here now, mate.” He scrunches his nose playfully and Richard ducks down to kiss it. 

“Yeah, I’ll have a few hits,” Richard agrees.

It hadn’t occurred to Taron that this means he’ll have to move from his terribly comfortable spot to get up and get the joint and lighter from his dresser and he groans self-pityingly. He sighs, presses one more kiss to Richard’s chest and heaves himself up off the bed and over to the dresser. “Here we go,” Taron announces after rummaging in the dresser for a few moments., He turns around, preroll and his best lighter in hand. 

He pinches the joint between two fingers and lights it as he walks back towards the bed. “You can have the first,” Taron says charitably, passing the joint to Taron

“Kind of you,” Richard flirts, taking it between his fingertips and sucking in a hit easily. Taron isn’t too proud to admit that the way Richard’s cheekbones and strong jaw are emphasized as he takes a drag is _extremely_ attractive.

“Don’t get used to it,” Taron warns, snuggling up close to Richard. 

Richard taps at his shoulder and immediately Taron tilts his chin up, parting his lips. Richard comes in close and exhales over Taron’s mouth. Taron breathes in slow and easy, relaxing his lungs as he lets the pungent smoke out. “Mm,” he says, giving Richard a proper kiss. “Lemme have a hit, ‘s stronger.” 

Richard passes him the joint and Taron takes a quick hit, exhaling into Richard’s mouth this time. Taron has only gotten high sparingly the past several months, so this week has been the first he’s had any in a while and the effects come on quicker than usual. He can feel time slowing a bit, syrupy just at the edges. The blue of Richard’s eyes feels novel suddenly, easy to stare at, get lost in. 

Richard nips the joint from him and brings it to his lips. Taron ducks forward to press his lips over Richard’s as soon as he pulls the joint away and Richard chuckles against his mouth, acrid smoke puddling out and hitting Taron’s tongue. Taron inhales it as Richard wraps a heavy arm around his shoulders and pulls him close. Richard sits back against the ridiculous amount of pillows on the bed and Taron straddles him. They share one more hit between them, which turns into soft, sloppy kisses and increasingly buzzing skin, loud-but-soft sounds. 

“Good?” Richard asks. Taron loves listening to him talk when they’re like this—every dip and curve to his accent is gorgeous to hear.

“Amazing,” Taron says, chuckling a bit and holding Richard’s face between both his hands. He kisses his forehead, his nose, his mouth. “You?” 

Richard smiles hazily at him. “Love when you laugh,” he mumbles, resting a hand in the dip of Taron’s back. “You sound all….” He trails off for a moment. “Happy,” he finally says, resonant like he’s said something profound. “Like when you’re happy.” He blinks. “Oh, yeah. I’m good.” 

“ _Told_ you it was good stuff,” Taron says smugly. 

Richard _giggles_ , and the sound rings in the air for what feels like several minutes. His eyelids are already droopy. It’s always been a pretty look on him. “Ugh,” Taron squirms, suddenly. “It makes me feel all sweaty though,” he complains, trying to wrestle his shirt off. His fingers keep missing the hem, for some reason. “What the fuck,” he whines. 

“Don’t hurt yourself there,” Richard says, and moves to snub out the preroll on the ceramic dish Taron keeps on his nightstand for his phone. The movement is somehow both fast and slow in Taron’s mind and he watches the way Richard’s body stretches throughout it with fascination. “Here,” Richard says, facing Taron once more and helping him pull his shirt off. “Hmm,” Richard sighs, smoothing a hand gently down Taron’s torso. There’s no charge behind the touch—they’re too tired and well-fucked—but he _feels_ the appreciation behind it, the sweetness. 

“You too?” Taron asks. He’s always been a sucker for skin to skin cuddles on any day. 

Richard laughs. “Yeah, alright.” He tugs off his shirt too and Taron pets over his chest briefly before throwing his arms around Richard’s shoulder and snuggling in for a close embrace. “Koala bear,” Richard teases. 

Taron shrugs, nuzzling into Richard’s neck. “I’d like to be a koala bear in my next life, actually,” he remarks, leaning back so he can look Richard in the face. 

“Is tha so?” Richard chuckles. Taron tries to count the light freckles on his face but keeps losing track every time he hits twelve or so. “It’s very easy to fall in love with you,” Richard says, after a minute or maybe an hour, running his fingers over Taron’s face. “That’s another skill for the resume.” 

“Falling in love with me?” Taron asks, scrunching his nose. 

“No,” Richard asks. “Not a skill for me. For _you_. You can make people fall in love with you like,” he snaps demonstratively, “ _that_. No muss, no fuss. Just you wait until the movie comes out. The masses will be after you.” He sighs and ducks in to kiss Taron’s shoulder. Taron makes a soft sound and pets over Richard’s hair. Richard closes his eyes briefly in contentment—genuinely, Taron is unsure if there isn’t anything Richard likes more than having his hair petted. 

“Here,” Taron offers, shifting off Richard and sitting beside him, patting his lap. Richard slides down and rests his head on Taron’s thigh right away, the ease of habit in his movements. “Spoiled,” Taron sighs. The colors of Richard—blue eyes, pink tinged skin, chestnut hair—are even more beautiful when he’s looking at them with the heightened appreciation from the weed. Richard shrugs one shoulder, eyes sleepy. He obliges Richard’s silent request and resumed stroking his fingers gently through his hair, combing through the still damp waves. “You’re so pretty,” Taron murmurs. “Pretty like...like clay.” 

Richard snorts, turns his face into Taron’s thigh, rubbing his cheek against the soft material of the sweatpants. He looks _so_ sleepy, soft and drowsy and clearly glued to the mattress. Taron is half-tempted to start singing him a lullaby. “Clay like _mud_?” Richard mumbles, giggling. He bumps his head back against Taron’s hand, which has stilled once more. Taron immediately indulges him, scratching his fingers gently through the short hairs at the back of Richard’s neck.

“No,” Taron says, shaking his head. “Clay like...sculpture. Art, you know.” He waves his hand vaguely and gets distracted by the motion for a moment. He wants a kiss. “I want a kiss,” he announces out loud. 

Richard giggles, the zip of laughter than always makes his shoulders draw up and his tongue peek from between his teeth. “Well, come down here, then,” he drawls. 

Taron cranes down, despite the absolute horrid angle on his back, and Richard rewards him with a soft, slow kiss. Taron pulls away once his muscles start to cramp up too much. 

“Like sculpture,” Richard muses. His eyes aren’t quite red, just slightly pink at the corners of the whites of his eyes but Taron thinks it makes the blue of his irises look even more striking.

“Richard,” Taron sighs, resuming his petting at Richard’s hair. “I kind of want to sing right now,” Taron announces. He points out his toes a bit, enjoying how the stretch feels in his legs. 

Richard hums, kisses the softest part of his belly. “Then you should sing,” he says, like it’s all very simple. He sounds so, so drowsy and every Taron’s hand pets between his shoulder blades he practically _purrs_ and goes more boneless on Taron’s lap. He looks young, soft this way. To think two hours ago, he was pinning Taron to the bed and relentlessly working him to the point of nearly losing his mind. 

“But there’s no _reason_ for me to sing,” Taron points out. Vaguely, he thinks that chocolate sounds rather appetizing right now but not nearly enough to justify moving Richard from his spot, especially when it’s clear he’s minutes away from falling asleep just like this. 

“Course there is,” Richard murmurs, finally letting his eyes flutter shut. Taron can’t _quite_ stop himself from grinning. He scratches at Richard’s scalp gently and Richard audibly sighs. This man impulsively hopped on a plane to cross the Atlantic with no prior planning, not even a change of clothes, just to see Taron. Fuck. “You want to sing. So sing.”

Weed makes every soft and warm around the edges but Taron knows even without the high he’d feel a fair bit like he was floating right now, cozied in the absolutely perfect moment. “Fuck it,” he sighs. “Rich, I’m falling in love with you, too. Damn.” 

Richard blinks his eyes open, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. “Are you just saying that because of the good sex and the good weed?” 

“ _No_ ,” Taron defends. “I’m saying that because your bum looks really good in those sweatpants.”

Richard smacks Taron’s thigh lightly. “Wanker,” he mutters. 

Taron giggles. They’ve only had a couple hits between them, and the high is already mellowing down for him a bit. Taron suspects the same for Richard but also knows he’s going to fall asleep any minute. “No, Rich,” he murmurs. “I genuinely don’t know how you’ve done it but I’m going right down the path to head over heels.” He sighs. “Shit. Dex _is_ a matchmaker.” 

“Ugh,” Richard groans. “Don’t say that, I don’t even wanna think about everyone assuming we were shagging the whole time. It’s embarrassing, thought I was at least a _little_ subtle about it.” 

“Shh,” Taron soothes, resuming petting at his hair. Richard hums and melts once more, eyelids droopy. Taron feels badly for rousing him from almost-sleep in the first place. “You’re my best mate,” Taron says impulsively. 

Richard hums happily. “I suppose you are too.” 

Taron chuckles. “Good enough,” he accepts. He rubs gentle circles into the place where Richard’s neck meets his shoulders—even to his untrained fingers the muscle feels tense. 

“Mmprh,” Richard says, a nonsense grunt of relaxation. “This is why I keep you around. The massages. Absolutely useless for anything else.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Taron chuckles, moving his hand to Richard’s shoulder blades and pressing circles there, too. He brings his other hand up to continue combing through Richard’s hair. It’s silky when it’s like this, freshly cleaned without a trace of product in it. 

He thinks Richard’s finally fallen asleep when Richard speaks up once more. “Sing,” he mumbles, so very drowsy and soft. 

“Sing what?” Taron asks.

“Anything,” Richard sighs, tucking his legs into closer to himself. “Not sure if anyone’s told you but you’re not a half-bad singer.” He keeps his eyes closed but Taron can see his mouth twitch with the hint of a smile.

“You’re not funny,” Taron tells him, scratching at his scalp with one hand and rubbing large, soothing circles over the expanse of his upper back with the other. Richard murmurs something wordless, too sleepy to banter back. Taron picks a Bowie song at random and sings that softly, too tired himself to strain at the notes or belt out the way he normally would. 

Richard hums contentedly, nuzzling closer to Taron’s thigh, and Taron closes his eyes and lets himself stretch out the moment for as long as possible. 

**12:13AM**

Richard is passed out, snoring softly. Taron‘s repositioned then so he’s spooned up against him, stroking gently at Richard’s temple, and tucking a foot between Richard’s calves. He reaches carefully for his phone, leaning back enough that he can text but keeping as much of his body pressed to Richard’s as he can. 

His keyboard makes a horrendous clacking sound when he starts typing out and he winces, switching the sound off. Richard stirs slightly and Taron ducks down to press a kiss to his temple, brushing a hand lightly over his flank. “Sorry,” he breathes, then leans back once more to resume his message. 

_update: richard likes dirty talk. it’s not just the accent. but he likes me the most :)_

Jamie responds less than a minute later. _its been less than 24hrs?? why do you know this now im concerned_

Taron smiles broadly, muffling a self-satisfied chuckle. _he flew out here just to see me after i called him_

Jamie calls him and on instinct Taron picks up, realizing a second too late he shouldn’t have. “Hey,” he whispers. “I can’t really talk, he’s sleeping right now.” 

“In your bed?” Jamie asks. 

“No, on my floor,” Taron says sarcastically. 

Jamie scoffs. “Okay, don’t be a twat.” Taron can _hear_ the smile in his voice. “Thanks for deeply aging me in the past 24 hours with this shit alone,” Jamie says. “Anyway, I was right, and you’re welcome, and you two have so much sexual tension to compensate for, so I’ll be sure not worry if I don’t hear from you for a bit.” 

“Fuck off,” Taron whispers, laughing. “And Jamie? Thanks.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jamie says, chuckling a bit. “Night, mate.” Taron returns the sentiment and then they hang up the call. He _should_ get up to turn off the light but that would mean moving away from Richard, which sounds both unpleasant just on principle and risks waking Richard, something Taron just cannot abide. 

He’s not high at all anymore but he’s terribly tired now anyway and he thinks they’ll both be able to sleep just fine through the night. Taron scoots down so that he’s laid down properly on the bed, spooned close to Richard. He drops a kiss to Richard’s shoulder. “You’re asleep,” he says under his breath. “But I just...the weed’s long gone and...I’m still falling in love with you, you know.” He’ll say it again, tomorrow, when they’re both awake, but it feels good to say it now, too. “Wanker,” he murmurs. “Just the worst.”

Taron slings a hand over Richard’s waist and has just closed his eyes when Richard’s hand comes up and wraps carefully around his own, giving it a firm squeeze. He thinks he hears Richard hum a little, though he doesn’t say anything. Taron smiles, tucks his cheek in close to Richard’s shoulder, and falls right asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> was that all shockingly gratuitous and self-indulgent? yes. do i hope you enjoyed it anyway? yes. 
> 
> it is still possible i'll have more coming for these two!
> 
> kudos and comments (i reply) genuinely keep me going on a daily basis


End file.
